


Mirror Fall

by Temaris



Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen's casual comment starts Connor down a quite unexpected path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Canadian_Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Canadian_Jay).



> Written for the Primevalathon Spring 2010. Somehow a couple of canadian_jay's prompts melded, and ended up with something a little angsty, a little porny, and a lot of Connor :) I hope you enjoy. One line quoted from episode 103.

_"Connor, I'm flattered, but you're really not my type."_

If there's anything that Connor Temple really gets, it's humour as a defence mechanism. Joke and deflect, deflect and joke. Laugh at the things that weren't all that funny, actually, if you wanted to know, thank you.

So he laughs nervously at Stephen's jibe, rolls his eyes, like he's supposed to; like it's rolling off his back, they're there to look for monsters and anomalies, everything's cool. Except.

Underneath he's still right there, thoughts skittering, wondering if Stephen saw something, knew something, thought something. All through the arguments about the professor's way and Stephen's -- intuition against logic; gut instinct against pragmatic expediency -- it's there, slinging to and fro, worse than a tennis match.

At least Wimbledon's done in a couple of weeks, even if it seems forever at the time. This has no end in sight, and deep in the night, night after night, when the only sounds are the tv through the thin walls, he's stuck, back and forth, back and forth. Blat: he thinks I'm gay; bop-blat: I'm not gay!; blat: he was joking; bop-blat: what if he wasn't, (rebound) outed and rejected in one go; bop-blat: what if _I'm_ gay?

That one zings past, snaps in on the line and slams into the wall of the back of his mind, leaving him lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. Sleepless, distracted, confused.

It's been days. Monsters and great inexplicable disco balls of temporal improbability notwithstanding, he's spent a lot of time online, not quite sure if he's researching, justifying or just avoiding the entire issue. Honesty compels him to admit probably? A little of each. Maybe even a lot of each.

Also: sometimes he doesn't quite know how he got involved in disco balls of temporal improbability, but he's so fucking glad he did. He's still holding out for Nessie as plesiosaur.

Once the lure of Google images and RvsB fade he regroups. The girlier of the relationship sites had been frankly terrifying, and he was pretty sure he couldn't convince even Rex to take an online poll:

Are you:  
O   straight  
O   gay  
O   bi  
O   So not interested, Connor, give it a bloody rest already.

He watches Stephen for a while. A few days, no more. Him and Abby. There was something there. Abby flits between angry and flirty, up and down. Sometimes at Stephen, sometimes -- he isn't totally sure, because really? Really? -- sometimes at him. He can't decide if she maybe likes him a little bit after all -- girls are so *hard*. Claudia just ignores him, but that's not new, and doesn't stop him appreciating that she's well fit, even with the weird pigtails and government suits. He'd tried looking at Tom and Dunc that way, and just couldn't see it; tried looking at the army guys and...

Back to a darkened room, sprawled on his unmade bed and staring at the ceiling -- but this time with a certain amount of forethought: viz: tissues and stolen hand cream (tomorrow, he's going to regret the way his dick smells of cherry and jojoba but that's a revelation for another day). A little out of breath and a lot out of jizz, judging by the sogginess of the tissues, and that's _that_ answered.

Maybe.

Unless he's just horny.

Unless he's not.

Blat. Bop-blat.

He hates tennis so much.

All of which perhaps goes some way to explaining why the sight of Ryan in skin tight soaking wetsuit disconcerts him entirely. He ought to be worried -- in some dim, distant part of his still thinking brain (and later he's going to be impressed that he was still thinking; later yet, he's going to wish he hadn't bothered) he is still worried about Helen Cutter being arrested, about the look on Professor Cutter's face, the guns that the special ops guys held on them without a qualm, like they really would shoot them to death if they breathed wrong as they led her away. But really, he's still mostly stuck on dark blond hair plastered down with Palaeolithic water, all stern focus and brisk competency.

And yes, fine, skin-tight black neoprene.

\o/\o/\o/

So, no, he's not entirely sure what he's doing, but he's not stopping doing it. Not when it turns out that SAS-type guys notice you noticing stuff.

And apparently, they don't really give a flying fuck (he tucks that one away in his memory carefully to be used on a suitable occasion, though he's hard pressed to see how he'll have an occasion that will beat Tom Ryan on his knees half rolling his eyes at him and about three seconds away from the best (fourth) blow job of his life. Not that he's counting.) about all this existential crisis shit.

Which is fine, really. Connor's much more interested in the rasp of teeth which you wouldn't think would be that hot on tender (swollen, hot, painful, sweet) portions of his anatomy, but again, turns out? What the hell did he know anyway?

Ryan -- Tom -- pulls back and grins at him. "I didn't think that would shut you up," he says cheerfully, and pulls Connor down onto the carpet next to him, tugging him onto his side until their lips and hips meet. Connor hangs on: Tom's kisses taste strange and familiar. They dizzy him like a week of no sleep, or a concussion, breaking into his flimsy reality and showing him just how disconnected it used to be. This, this is connection.

Is real.

Some of it's more real than he'd bargained for, but he's always run *towards*, and every word (so tight, god, Connor, let me, let me) entices him further up and further in (and there's another book he can't ever read again, and he'd be cross if he could still remember what--)

"Oh my god," he gulps out, and shifts, twisting and torn, every bit of him shocked and giddy. Tom's hands are on Connor's hips and Connor can feel the restraint in them, the strength held back as he's eased back onto Tom's lap, arms sliding warmly around him, cock deep in him.

"Okay?" Tom asks, and Connor nods frantically --don't stop-- and realises from the chuckle in his ear that he said it out loud. But it's good. It's all good.

Tom's chest is warm against his back as he starts rocking his hips, shoving up into Connor, slipping back, and then in again. They're breathing together, kissing when Connor leans his head back, hooking an arm awkwardly around Tom's neck until his grip slips and he slides down, pushing himself down and deeper, deeper and down.

Tom holds on and on, and Connor stops thinking, stops worrying, stops everything except feeling this. The beat of Tom's heart against him. The strong arms enclosing him, keeping him, and the push and pull of their fucking, sweet, rough pleasure jolting and burning with every thrust. He gasps for air, but it catches him up, dense with the smell of their bodies, strong with sweat and musk and things that he categorises as 'them' and 'real', made up of guns and papers and sea water and probably a little bit of neoprene and ozone, but who's counting?

And he stops. Thinking.

Completely.

They're still on the floor, curled together in a tangle of arms and legs and mess. He's vaguely aware that the floor's hard, but it won't even occur to him until sometime during awkward cornflakes tomorrow that there might be a bed somewhere here.

Their breathing slows. The air in the room cools on their bodies, but it's not unpleasant. He can feel muscles untying, tick by tick, like a cooling engine at last at rest.

Tom's wrapped around him, and smiling at him as they subside. It's a smile that transforms his face, all the dark places in it lifted and lit with gentle pleasure.

"You okay?"

Connor shrugs a little, smiles a little. The words have stopped tumbling and jittering, and he's drifting towards sleep. Tom seems to take this as the yes he means it as, and hugs him a little closer, rolls them a little further. For a moment Connor's lying on his back in the darkness, with Tom over him. The stray thought occurs to him that he would be staring up into nothingness again, only, he thinks slowly, sleepily, Tom's in the way.

And really? He likes this view better.


End file.
